


The Ballad of Lisbon LeBlanc

by MarcoFro5



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alcohol, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21801925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarcoFro5/pseuds/MarcoFro5
Summary: When you can't run alone, where do you go?
Kudos: 6





	The Ballad of Lisbon LeBlanc

**Rodeo Bar. DFW International Airport. Dallas, TX. United States of America**

“Interesting name,” the bartender said, handing back her I.D.

He gave a smile she had seen so many times before.

“You think so?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and gave a practiced giggle, showing off teeth that were white as could be. When grabbing her I.D. back, she made sure to touch his fingers with hers.

“Absolutely, it’s French right?”

He was admittedly attractive, with the exact kind of plaid button-up and denim jeans she imagined all Texas boys wore.

“You got it,” she lied, laughing and leaning forward with her arms pushed inward towards her chest. “Have you ever been?”

“Can’t say that I have, no” he said, chuckling. “What will you be having?”

Liz peeked over the bar and at the bottles of liquor racked up behind him. She pointed at one wrapped in fisherman netting near the top shelf, a black cork designed to look like coral at the top. Barrier Dark Rum, her favorite.

“Is that vodka? It looks kind of beachy,” she said, shimmying her hips and shoulders in the barstool.

He followed her finger and reached up to grab the bottle, hairy stomach peeking out from under his shirt as he stretched.

“It’s a rum actually, I haven’t tried it myself but I’ve heard good things. Not sure if it’s your speed, though.”

 _Everything is my speed, cowboy,_ she thought.

“Can I try it? Maybe like a sampling,” she said with a practiced grin.

“I can do better than a sampling, darlin’.”

He grabbed a rocks glass and added ice before filling it up a quarter of the way with the rum. Using a nozzled gun, he shot a little too much cola than what she would’ve given herself but he followed it up with some mint leaves and a splash of lime.

Two stirs from a mixing straw later and the drink was on her coaster. She took a sip and winced, face scrunching up.

“Ahhhh, that’s so strong!”

“Sorry, I probably should’ve warned you, hon.”

She reached for her clutch, and fished around for a few dollars that she then placed on the bar. The bartender nudged them back forward and she met his eyes with feigned confusion.

“Consider it on the house,” he said.

“How nice of you,” she said, looking into his turquoise eyes.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, giving a smile and a bold wink. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He departed to serve another girl at the bar and Liz noticed the added swagger in his step. She also noticed just how well he filled out the seat of those light-washed jeans.

Liz gulped the drink without wincing in the slightest, liquid as smooth as silk tingling her tongue and nipping at the back of her throat. 60 seconds, she decided, reaching into her bag for a small bar of mint chocolate she saved from the flight. It was no bigger than her thumb and she bit a third of it, pairing the sweetness with the rum.

Her mind flooded with imaginations of her and the bartender, of him pushing her against a wall in a dark alley with her hands clawing away at his shirt’s buttons. She would let him take control and ravage her neck, his lips hot against her skin.

Twenty seconds passed and she took another third of the chocolate and another sip. The images in her head shifted to the look on his face after he would kiss her, his rough hands pawing at her chest or scrunching up her dress at the thigh. Then the delicious moment when his look of pleasure twisted into shock and horror as she slid a knife into his side, the dawning realization translating into a primal need to get away.

Another twenty seconds, a final bite and drink.

He would run and she would let him, licking her lips both here at the bar and in her fantasy. She would pursue him, never leaving his side no matter how far he hobbled. A cut along his forearm first, to make it just a little bit harder for him to keep the blood from spilling out. The next would be through his Achille’s, where his tight jeans weren’t long enough to stop her. Then his thigh. Armpit. Back of the neck. Forehead. She would chase him and cut him until there was nothing left to chase, just a bloody stain on the asphalt.

Her time was up and the ice from her drink tumbled onto her face like a deserved cold shower.  
The imagined scene faded from her mind as she refocused on the empty glass and the dirty chocolate wrapper.

One minute, once a day. It was enough to keep her hungry and she performed best when hungry. Indulgence led to gluttony and gluttony led to being gutted like a fat pig.

She sucked on rum-soaked ice, cooling her down a bit more while she waited. The plane ride had been long and she always ended up restless when stuck in the same spot for too long.

Finally, a large man with a heavy, leather jacket sat next to her, mindful not to knock over her luggage.

“A bird that lives with clipped wings is a tragedy,” he said, voice gruff.

“But a bird that flies with clipped wings is a marvel,” she replied. “Interesting choice of parable.”

“Apt, given our circumstances don’t you think? I’m Beast of Burden,” he said, turning and extending a gloved hand. His breath stunk of mint and tobacco as he leaned close to her, body heavy enough it threatened to tip the whole barstool over.

She shook it, his hand almost completely engulfing hers.

“You’ve changed your name,” she said.

“Naturally. The names we were given were nonsensical, like fairy tales. No place for them in the real world.”

Sure, she thought, and definitely not because you had the unfortunate title as a yak.

“I assume you’re still the Fox?”

“Fennec, actually.”

He released her hand and wore a smug smile as if he was right about why they should change names. She endured it. The real reason would cause more trouble than it cleared.

“I appreciate you flying out to Dallas,” he said, waving off the bartender when he turned our way.

“Birds of a feather flock together.”

“I hope that’s not the only reason you reached out. I’m a man who lives in the now, not in the past.”

If she had to describe him in one word it would be grizzled. On the skin that wasn’t covered in heavy winter wear, there was coarse hair. It was styled into a thick goatee on his face, covering part of a deep scar that ran from under his right eye to his chin.

“Of course,” she said, trying her best not to inject sarcasm into the words. “I’m here for work.”

“Work implies compensation. Why are you here, Fennec?”

“I’m tired of running,” she lied.

**Summer's End Beauty Pageant. Geneva Recreation Center. Geneva. Switzerland.**

“Bon, smile,” Mom said, adding a french inflection on her name. The strings on the back of her dress were pulled so tight it choked her.

Lisbon took a sharp intake of breath and sucked in her tummy, only making it fit tighter.

“If you stopped stuffing your face every chance you get,” Mom drew it tighter and the pain was sharp against her ribs. “It wouldn’t hurt this much. Now smile, sweetie.”

She did, lips curling to be just the right length they had practiced with a little bit of teeth showing, the taste of bleach numbing her tongue. Most of her was numb actually, the makeup thick enough that she barely felt the hair dryer blowing against her face.

Her chest and waist would be numb at some point and Lisbon couldn’t wait for that. She had her eyes set on the cupcakes in the back of the dressing room, trying to imagine the sweetness in her mouth instead of the bleachy taste. So long as she focused, everything else wasn’t so bad.

Mom and her friend were talking about one of the other girls and how she had cried on stage. They laughed and Lisbon was glad because that was one less second of them pulling her hair and one more second she could look around at the other girls getting ready.

They looked as sweet as she imagined the cupcakes would taste and were a lot prettier than the girls from before her birthday last month. Prettier than her. Hairspray forced her eyes shut and the hands were upon her again, getting everything ready.

According to Mom, she had to work harder than the other girls, but with every pageant she found herself zoning out. The routines were, well, routine by this point and the only joy from winning came from the aftermath. The ice cream shop near her house, the hour of music Mom picked out for her. She could imagine the rewards so clearly in her head.

The move had been rough, but the chocolates in Switzerland almost made it worth it. Almost. Things were apparently better now, but she couldn’t see how. There weren’t any beaches and everyone talked funny compared to back home.

Mom kissed her on the forehead, her cue to go on stage. Her steps were measured, getting used to the satisfying clink of her tap shoes against the hardwood. Toes forward, one foot in front of the other, arms out with a flourish. She looked back before reaching the stage. Mom had a wide grin, fingers hooked into the corners of her mouth. Not encouragement, just a reminder.

Lisbon walked on stage with a beaming smile. The room was bright and it took some time for the contacts Mom bought her to make the lights easier on her eyes. Brown curls bounced on bare shoulders as she sashayed to the metal strip in the center of the stage, eyes locked on the judges.

Being still was the worst part. She felt like a doll at the fancy stores in the mall, standing still while she waited. Dolls probably had it easy, she thought as the crowd’s whispers died down. They were always what they needed to be. No pretending. No faking. No acting. They just were.

The music started and she slowly lifted her arms in the air, taking a breath and holding it in. She was facing the side and thankful the cupcakes were there instead of her mom. She could taste vanilla when the beat started.

Short hop forward, turn body towards the crowd, drag her left foot. Her head whipped around at the same time she stomped with her left foot, a satisfying click matching up with the music. She locked eyes with the center judge, smile maintained despite the icky bags under his eyes.

Two kicks, then three, before a step to the left and another slide with her right foot. Another stomp. Another head whip. Lisbon felt a twinge of pain in her neck, sore from having to do the routine for hours this morning before they left. The long car ride didn’t help, their new home too far from this part of the city.

It didn’t hurt enough to scream and she carried on with the routine, each movement measured to put her exactly where she needed to be. She felt better, her body falling in step with the music so well she had to be careful not to smile too hard.

A woman’s vocals joined in when the horns faded out and Lisbon wanted to sing along, even if she didn’t know the words or the language. She sung with her legs instead, doing a Carioca just like in the videos.

She whipped her right foot behind and around her left, tapping the metal there before doing it with her other foot. Middle finger and thumb grabbed at the frills of her dress, flicking them up with each step for flair.

What came next was her favorite. She stomped as the woman on the music shouted something. Everyone seemed a little more on the edge of their seat, judges no longer scribbling on paper. She reared back and kicked the stage, the bottom of her shoe just grazing the metal strip and giving out a soft sound as the woman sang.

Another shout meant another stomp and Lisbon kicked again, the sound louder. She felt her heart beat in rhythm to the music and her grin widened as she slid to the left and got ready for another kick.

Her smile vanished when the bottom of the shoe kicked the raised side of the metal strip. Her body lurched forward and she hit the stage hard, knees clipping the edge of the strip. Even like this she didn’t dare look down at her feet, keeping eye contact on the judges instead. She stood up and the music kept going, the woman’s singing still playing over the speakers.

Desperately, Lisbon stomped and it was then that she realized the heel had completely come loose from the shoe. A shockwave went through her from foot to forehead. The music kept playing and she stomped again and it hurt less this time now that she expected it.

If the crowd gasped, she didn’t hear it. Her eyes danced between judges and her smile came back. She continued her routine, hobbling with each move as her body fell more and more out of rhythm. The judges and audience looked spooked, but the only eyes she worried about were the ones she didn’t have the nerve to turn and see.

Mom lurked in her vision, but the stage was safe. If she had anyone else’s mom, they would run on stage and take her away. Rescue her.

Lisbon kicked the ground hard as the routine reached its finale, the thud not lining up with the music.

But Lisbon didn’t have someone else’s mom. She had her mom. The chances of her coming on stage in front of all of the people she wanted to impress? In front of the people she wanted to be like ever since we moved here? Zero. Instead, her mom waited. Lurked. Prowled.

Lisbon kept dancing, careful to avoid the piece of her shoe that was somewhere near her. A part of her wished she never made contact with it and another desperately wanted to know where it was so she wouldn’t step on it.The stage was smaller now, her mom and the backstage feeling close enough that a hand could come out and grab her. Still, as trapped as she was, she was safe up here. Mom couldn’t, wouldn’t, get her so long as she was in front of all of these people.

Her steps lacked oomph, still worried about the chunk of shoe she could slip on. She overcompensated and the stomp hurt this time. The music stopped and she didn’t. Lisbon stepped and danced and kicked and stomped, making up the moves as best as she could. Nobody stopped her and so she kept going. Each step took more effort than the last and her hobble became a limp when she tried to slide to one side.

Just keep going, she thought. The moment she stopped was the moment shock turned into ridicule. Surprise into anger. Pity into disappointment.

With her body wearing out, absolutely nowhere left to turn to, and outright fear in what awaited her, she smiled as wide as she could and her lips didn’t stop curling upward. They rose unto they merged with her eyes and then her head and her hair and looping around and widening until her whole body was swept up into the motion.

Then quickly she unfolded, like a picture book being flipped through. She was both the book and its reader, but the story wasn’t hers. Each impossibly thin page showed moving images that seemed to go on forever if she tried to stick her hand through it. Thousands of them, pouring out of her and turning to crimson ash that rose above her.

The ash became clouds and those clouds unfolded once more. She could read their pages and understood none of it. People that weren’t people, and things that weren’t things, moved on each layer,pulling the one after it close together until they were strung into patterns like red spider webs. She tried to zoom in and focus on just one and that one collapsed into a thousand more. So she zoomed out and the unfolding slowed until her book became a book again. Her head a head again. Her smile a smile again.

She was back on stage, knee bruised as she leaned on it on the hardwood. Split and sliced images still lingered in her vision and for a second she was worried every part of her would peel away until she was as thin as ribbons. They didn’t and the images faded until they all but vanished. She called on them and they didn’t come, choosing to lurk in the sides.

The thought made her look toward her mom, still on the sidelines and away from her. Even with her only daughter collapsed on stage, her Mom had been too ashamed to come get her.

Lisbon was right beside Mom and for some reason her mom jumped. Why was she so startled? Mom composed herself and Lisbon felt a pang of anger when her mom looked at the other scared parents and kids before facing her daughter. Mom tried to scoop her up but her arms were nowhere close to Lisbon at the other side of the room. Another attempt to compose herself, even after almost falling face first on the ground.

“Bon,” her mom whined. “It’s okay, just come here.”

What was she talking about? Lisbon tugged at her mom’s dress and the shriek was so loud it made her wince. She let go and watched her mom desperately look around backstage for her. Lisbon laughed a little, sitting on the vanity stool a couple of feet behind her flustered mom. She did a little searching of her own, looking for the cupcakes from earlier and finding them on the other side of the dressing room. She wasn’t next to them, which struck her as odd.

Her mom locked eyes with her and Lisbon was off the stool and right in front of her instead, feet already in motion to the cupcakes. A grip on her wrist stopped her in her tracks.

“Bon, please.”

It was only when she was trapped like this that Lisbon realized just how free she had been moments before. It was like every door, every movement she could make had now been closed off from her.

“Let go!” she shouted, voice coming out louder than she thought it would.

She tried to pull free from her mom’s grip, but it only got tighter. The whole room seemed to shrink and Lisbon’s chest felt even tighter, the corset still forcing her to take measured breaths. Her mom pulled her closer, nails digging into skin and panic taking hold.

Lisbon focused again on the cupcakes but had gone nowhere. Another door closed off to her, shut in her face. She saw a girl in a pretty dress near the table of sweets though, face showing nothing but horror. The door opened and Lisbon stepped through it as if she had been on the other side the whole time.

The girl screamed, falling and then crawling back and away from her. Lisbon stood over her, free from her mom’s grip. Free to reach out and take a cupcake. Free to get annoyed at how the cheap, tin wrapper didn’t peel away cleanly.

She took a bite, chocolate icing smooshing against her nose. As the sweet vanilla taste reached her tongue, Lisbon smiled.


End file.
